


Ecstasy

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Angst, Anonymous Sex, Blow Jobs, Chemsex, Condoms, Depressed John, Disability, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Falling In Love, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, Loneliness, M/M, Self-Destruction, Slut Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12305367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: John never learned how to do this here, in sordid London, where every bloke lines up in a queue of ads and everyone has someone else every night.





	1. (John)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a scene in London Spy where a character once posted an ad online, inviting anyone to come around and do anything they wanted to him on the one condition that they would not speak. 
> 
> **Warnings: Explicit sex, explicit drug use, chemsex, group sex involving Sherlock Holmes/various unnamed OMCs, mention of HIV, suicidal thoughts, dubious consent.**
> 
> Betaed by Pickles7437 and Brit-picked by Jie_Jie, aka my dream team! *g*

 

 

John is living in London again. The city has swallowed him along with his cane, buried him under some semblance of a life, and encased him in a bedsit with thin walls and a small rectangle of a window. 

He spends a lot of time staring at those walls. When he sleeps, lurid dreams drag him down under thick layers of memory. When he stands, his leg grinds like a badly oiled collection of gears, and pain fractures within him. That last is imagined - supposedly. Psychosomatic means shit when it’s the only thing he _can_ feel, though. Anger boils and bubbles inside of John along with that pain. It’s what keeps him up at night and reminds him that he’s finished, now. His life is over. 

John’s been put to the side and stored away. 

He has a laptop, but nothing to do with it. An empty blog and an empty search history. He’s feeling as bland as the walls of his fucking bedsit, so when he types “gay hook-ups central London” into Google, it’s because he wants to hate himself even further. John wants to look at the pictures of nameless torsos and cocks, have a wank, and know that not a single one of those men are ever going to give him the time of day. 

John’s eye lingers on “55/6 Montague Street. Come around. Anyone. One condition: don’t speak. S.H.” And then he looks on and scrolls past the sea of “Young twink seeks Daddy,” and “45yr old needs cock.” 

He closes the screen and lies in his single bed, staring at the ceiling. John thinks about that ad - not speaking is what he understands about it. He finds it hard to focus on a conversation, any at all. His thoughts drift. They’re all empty words, really. 

He tries to wank. He can’t even get hard.

Later, in therapy, John thinks about _anyone_ and _don’t speak_ again. He thinks on it for a while, fluttering between those words and calmly waiting for the hour to be over. 

That evening, he opens the site again and looks for the ad. It was signed S.H., he remembers that clearly. He can’t find it again. John almost feels like he imagined it. 

He checks the website sporadically for days. Eventually, the same ad pops up again. It stays up for a full thirty minutes before it disappears, and John watches it the entire time. He can’t take his eyes off the screen. 55 Montague Street isn’t far from where John is sitting right now. Even with the cane, it’s no more than a ten minute walk. 

He doesn’t go, but he gets into the habit of leaving the website open all day. He looks at it while he eats. While he cleans his gun. While he is awake at night. The ads roll on, all day and all night. “Hook-up by London Bridge,” and “Want to get fucked,” and “Slamming tonight,” and “Leather bear wants same.” John lies alone on his narrow bed and sees, “My cock’s ready for you,” and “Grey stud,” and “Sauna hook-up.” It never ends. 

John goes to therapy and doesn’t say anything worth saying. John sits in his bedsit and doesn’t do anything worth doing. His blog remains empty. So does his life. 

It’s a whole week and a half until it is posted again, around four in the morning. “55/6 Montague Street. Come around. Anyone. One condition: don’t speak. S.H.”

John puts his trousers on. Then his shoes. 

It’s cold out. Mid-November, now. Even though it’s the middle of the night, the city doesn’t sleep. There’s a delivery van with men unloading boxes. Further down, there are some harried street cleaners. John’s cane thumps on the pavement while he walks around them. Thud. Thud. Thud. He passes a group of teens, clearly drunk. They laugh amongst themselves and ignore him entirely. 

Despite the cold, John’s sweating. He hasn’t walked anywhere with a purpose in months. His shirt sticks to his armpits. He’s out of breath by the time he’s there – 55 Montague Street. 

It’s a neat townhouse. Flat 6 has a buzzer that claims to belong to “Sherlock Holmes.” There’s a folded bit of cardboard between the door and the doorframe, leaving it open for anyone who’d want to come in. 

_Anyone._

John scales the staircase. Step, thud. Step, thud. He needs to pull his leg along, but he’s moving as if he’s got something to prove, now. He’s charging in, cane and all. 

The flat is on the second floor, the first door on the right. The door’s not properly closed. There’s a sliver of light visible, and John pushes it open. 

It’s a small flat. Cluttered. John can see books and magazines, cardboard boxes, and lab equipment, all of it piled up in precarious-looking heaps. He sees the silhouette of a man sitting on the windowsill. He’s smoking. 

The man – Sherlock Holmes, John assumes – looks up and glances at him for a long moment, and then stubs his cigarette into an ashtray. 

He doesn’t speak. Neither does John. He’s not all that sure what he could say, anyhow. _I saw your ad so I thought I’d come over here for a fuck at 4AM._ No, John lowers his shoulders and keeps his mouth shut, as instructed.

The man comes closer. His eyes skip over John’s chest, to his cane, then back up to his face. 

John eyes him back. He’s tall, this bloke. Good-looking, really, in a pale public school sort of way. He hasn’t shaved for at least a couple of days. _Sherlock Holmes_ has some wild curls, tight trousers and a wrinkled shirt. His feet are bare. 

Meeting his eyes is like looking into a bright light. It’s intense, like fire.

But John keeps eye contact, steadily waiting for the verdict. He’s waiting to be told what he already knows about himself, that he’s _nothing_. That, even though he’s been silent as the fucking grave since walking in here, he’s gonna get shown to the door. Twinks only. Or bears, or god-knows-what-else these men want that John doesn’t even know about. He’s hardly ‘gay hook-up in London’ material. 

Instead, Sherlock reaches out fast, as if he means to grab John’s cane out of his hand. 

And John nearly clocks him in response. John doesn’t know why, just that his body leans forwards, arms protective, his breath tearing through his chest. _Jesus!_ John takes a step back. He shouldn’t be around anyone. He shouldn’t do this. He should walk out that door and leave this to the people who know what the hell they’re doing. 

But this man looks at him and his reaction as if it’s fascinating. Sherlock’s bright eyes are moving over him – observing him, somehow. 

John’s heart beats in his throat. It’s like being under a microscope, being studied like that. He’s got the uncomfortable feeling that this Sherlock is reading all of his rotten, half-buried thoughts. 

It lasts for another long moment, and then Sherlock reaches out again. John’s ready this time. He stands his ground. He doesn’t flinch away, even when Sherlock’s fingers touch John’s hand, and then - _oh_ \- lift up his sleeve. 

Sherlock’s fingers trace the line of John’s wrist, where he’s still a bit tanned. The touch feels overly close, somehow. But then no one’s touched John in months, so it’s bound to be a shock. 

And then, Sherlock unceremoniously cups John’s crotch. 

John’s instantly stuck between pulling himself away because _fuck no_ , and leaning into it, because this is what he’s here for, isn’t it? John can feel his cock swell at the pressure of fingers there, slowly stroking him. 

He is aware of both of them breathing, loud in the otherwise deathly silent flat. 

_Anyone_ , John remembers. Anyone’s good enough, so... He opens his jeans buttons, then his zip. His fingers press down his sweaty cock and he pulls it out over his pants. He’s got a good semi already, and it’s eagerly rising. 

Sherlock’s eyes linger on it. Even while he starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

Part of John had assumed that it wouldn’t be real, this. That he’d walk in here and it would turn out to be a joke. Or it would be some ugly bloke. Or a scam, anything but this. It _is_ insane - not talking. But it’s also exactly what he wants. Not a word. Not a single solitary word, just immediately down to what he came here for. 

Sherlock’s still undressing. His chest is an expanse of pale flesh with some dark hairs and small nipples. He has a hollow of a stomach. He steps out of his trousers and chucks away his pants as if they’re useless at this point. John can see long legs, a black shock of pubes, and a completely soft cock between them. 

John looks at him and thinks _Jesus, mate, you can do better._

But Sherlock catches John’s eye, glances at a packet of condoms lying ready on the living room table, and then gives him a demanding look. John nods before he realises what he’s saying – yeah, he’ll wear one. 

He’s standing in a complete stranger’s flat, they haven’t said a single word, and John’s _just agreed to fuck him_. John would like to be struck by the sheer impossibility of that. He’d like to be the sort of man that’s strong enough to walk right out of the door around now. But he isn’t, is he? This is exactly the sort of man John is. 

John leans his cane on the side of the living room table. There’s a bottle of lube there as well. A big bottle, nearly empty. So is the packet of condoms. He’s clearly just one fuck in a row of many, here. This Sherlock bloke probably won’t even remember him come tomorrow. Now that Sherlock’s standing there naked, John can see something that looks a lot like an injection bruise in the crook of his arm, as well. So he’s probably on something. But does that matter, really? 

Can’t judge, John thinks while he pumps some lube onto his fingers. 

Sherlock leans his forearms onto the sofa’s back and turns his arse towards John. It’s the most straightforward thing John’s seen in years. This is the ‘searching for’ from the ads personified. It’s supply and demand, and John likes the thought of being useful, even if only for a minute or ten. 

John presses his fingers – two at once – into Sherlock Holmes’ round arse. He takes it like a champ. John’s fingers disappear inside of him without much effort. Sherlock breathes out softly, but he doesn’t look back at him, so it probably doesn’t even matter to him who John is at this point. 

He can appreciate that, too. In the army, John got used to sucking and fucking in quiet tents, behind barracks and in bunks, but he always knew them. He always _liked_ them. They were good men, decent people, and then they got blown to bits. Or shot, or transferred, or sent home to their wives, it was always ended for him in some way. So no, John never learned how to do this here, in sordid London, where every bloke lines up in a queue of ads and everyone has someone else every night. John never saw himself as part of the anonymous clockwork of men - get hard, fuck, come, rinse and repeat. But it seems like a damn good idea. No words. No nothing. 

John’s here, with his fingers two knuckles deep into a perfect stranger, and it all seems easier, somehow. _Be good for something, Watson. Give this poor bloke what he’s asking for._

Sherlock’s more than ready to take him. John spreads his fingers open and pulls them out like that. Good enough. 

John selects a condom and tries to open it, but his fingers are slippery now, and his nails skid over the side of the plastic. Sherlock looks back at him with an imperious look – either he’s impatient to be fucked, or he’s checking that he’ll actually put it on, John isn’t sure. He wipes his fingers on his jacket, then uses his teeth and manages to get it open. The smell of latex is instantly familiar. John slips it over his cock.

They don’t need words for this. Sherlock turns back around, spreads his legs, and John puts the head of his cock right there between Sherlock’s arse cheeks. John slowly presses past the muscle and lets himself sink in. It’s different than he remembers. Dirtier, somehow. 

He’s pushing into that lubed-up hole, and any pain that’s psychosomatic should disappear while he’s having a brilliant fuck, shouldn’t it? It hasn’t. John pulls out a little, then thrusts in again. He’s leaning his weight forward, using his leg muscles, and it bloody hurts. The sweat’s already making his shirt stick to his lower back. He never took his jacket off. He never pushed his trousers down fully, either, so now they’re spanning between his knees. 

Just as John’s contemplating telling him that he can’t keep this going, Sherlock glances back at him and leans down more onto the sofa. The different angle is instantly better. John’s got leverage, now. He pushes into him, and Sherlock gives it right back to him. Their bodies collide in wet-sounding thumps.

 _Aaah._ John bites his lip to make sure he doesn’t make a sound. _Oh yeah. This is it._

John can see the long lines of Sherlock’s back and shoulders. He’s striking, really. Sherlock’s dark curls move with every thrust, and so does the sofa. John takes him hard. The sweat drips down his forehead. John can feel the first pangs of orgasm already pull by his cock, but he’s not planning on giving in any time soon. It’s bloody amazing, like this. They pound towards oblivion.

And then, the door creaks. 

John immediately stops moving with anger tingling all over his spine, _who the fuck...?_

There are two none-too-surprised-looking men walking in. Sherlock looks up at them, quickly scans them, and then nods. 

Right. John had forgotten that this is an open invitation. 

Sherlock leans back onto John’s cock, and John starts thrusting again, because he’s close and he wants to come. But he’s also aware of their audience. He can see one of them look at his cane, leaning on the living room table. John mentally dares him to say a fucking word. 

He doesn’t. 

The oldest of the two men opens his trousers and starts pulling himself into hardness. The younger one’s more hesitant, but he follows, too. John can feel their eyes on him. 

Sherlock isn’t even watching them. 

Sherlock’s cock is soft, bouncing between his legs with every thrust. John reaches out and puts a hand around it, and Sherlock breathes a surprised breath, as if he wasn’t expecting to be touched. _I can show you a good time, too, yeah?_ John strokes Sherlock’s cock for him and eyes the men. They’re ready to take his place as soon as he comes. 

It’s good, still. Despite all of that, it is. 

The sofa squeaks faintly every time Sherlock moves into it. John can hear the rhythmic slapping of those two men pulling themselves off - they’re masturbating to the scene in front of them. John’s cock disappearing into Sherlock’s arse makes a sloppy, squelching sound. John can feel the sweat trickle down his neck and his back. He’s gonna come. He is gonna come into the arse of someone he’s never said a word to, while being watched by these two men. It’s seedy as fuck. 

John curls his toes in his shoes. He suppresses a groan. _Jesus Christ, this is good._ He lingers on the edge for another thrust, then gives in and spurts into the condom. 

He stops moving, and with a last apologetic stroke over Sherlock’s cock, John pulls out. 

His leg aches, but it was worth it. 

Sherlock slowly stands upright again. There’s some sweat matting his hair now. He’s trembling, almost vibrating with whatever he’s on. His eyes seem wide and wild as they brush John’s for a moment - John can feel his gaze like a shock. Sherlock’s cock is mostly soft still, but delicious-looking. John wants to suck it. 

But they’re not alone. John pulls the condom off. He ties a knot into it and, because of the lack of a bin, leaves it on the table. He pulls up his pants and trousers while the other men both take a condom and wrap up so they can have a go. 

Sherlock leans back onto the sofa again - his body all pale muscle and bone - and presents his arse. 

The oldest man takes John’s place. Without any preparation, he pushes in and starts fucking Sherlock. The other one kneels on the sofa and pulls Sherlock’s head down to his cock. Sherlock’s mouth opens willingly. He just closes his eyes and takes it. 

John grabs his cane and walks away. 

He takes the stairs down. His hips are dully singing, and so is his cock, full of sensation still. But he feels nauseous, too. Filthy as fuck. Does this Sherlock bloke just do everyone, all night? How long does it go on for?

John leaves the cardboard between the door downstairs, so it’ll stay open. 

It’s cold out. It must be around half four, maybe five in the morning. John doesn’t care. The sweat makes his clothes stick to him. His face feels hot, and his hands are slippery with lube still. He smells like condoms and sex, he’s sure. Like arse. 

John walks through the dark streets while the wet, foggy cold of London seeps into him. When he reaches the Thames, he watches the lights reflecting on the waves like a sickening, swirling picture. 

He could chuck himself in - that’s what he thinks on any given day when he hobbles past here. Or maybe find his gun and shoot some screeching seagulls, then blow his own brains out. 

There are some drunken party-goers passing by. Then some people dressed for work, even this early. A bus drives past, then another. It starts to drizzle.

John breathes, and breathes, and breathes. 

Eventually, he walks back to the bedsit, leaning heavily on his cane.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (Sherlock)

 

 

 _“55/6 Montague Street. Come around. Anyone. One condition: don’t speak. S.H.”_

Sherlock posts the ad at 6.11pm.

The sound of the cars driving past wears on him. The _day_ wears on him. The entire flat seems to pulse with nothingness. Nothing is interesting. There is not a single sensation, concept, or event in the world that can entertain him. It churns and throbs, the feeling. He is bored. Boooored. Bored bored BORED!

He can’t get rid of it any other way. Sherlock measures out 150 milligrams of Methylenedioxymethamphetamine on his digital scales and swallows it wrapped in a small piece of Rizla. He rubs some under his tongue as well. The taste is unpalatable, but it will hit his bloodstream faster. 

He sits on the windowsill and smokes. He lights one cigarette after the next, then forgets about them and leaves them burning in the ashtray. He checks the website. It’s been seventeen minutes. He lights another cigarette, takes a single drag from it, and stubs it out. He checks the website again. It’s still been seventeen minutes. He lights another. 

He already rigged the front door downstairs so they can come up. Sherlock eyes the door. Come _on!_

And then he hears it. It’s the thud of a cane in the hallway, approaching fast. Sherlock feels his stomach contract. _Yes._ It’s the soldier. 

The soldier’s steady eyes meet Sherlock’s when he opens the door. He’s an army doctor, clearly - Sherlock could deduce that easily last time. He has an unconscious military stance. He holds his shoulders back and stands with his weight distributed evenly on both legs, even though he has that cane. He is merely holding it as a prop right now. He only leans on it when his body remembers. There is a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breaths are shallow and quick. He hurried, possibly almost ran to get here. 

He must live nearby to make it here that quickly, twice. Sherlock stubs out his cigarette and walks up to him. Judging by the creases in the soldier’s shirt and trousers, he lives in a small flat. Bedsit. He’s short on money. The grooves around his mouth indicate recent pain and sorrow, but before that, determination and action. His short hair is still bleached by the sun.

This soldier could take him in a fight. Last time, when he thought Sherlock was trying to grab his cane, his reaction was quick, sure, and aggressive. He’s shorter than Sherlock is, but Sherlock can feel the desperation radiate off him. This man could take anyone, and more than that, he would. He is _itching_ for some action. Dangerous, if needs be. 

Sherlock sees the gleam in the soldier’s eyes while he’s allowing himself to be observed. 

People tend to break eye contact whenever Sherlock deduces for too long. They feel uncomfortable, especially when Sherlock invades their personal space. But not this man. He looks as if he enjoys being challenged. Sherlock leans in even closer, so close it becomes inappropriate for anyone but a lover, so close that most would either kiss or hit him. 

Not this man. The soldier looks back evenly and raises an eyebrow. 

Sherlock’s smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. The increased serotonin from the ecstasy is starting to take effect, because Sherlock can feel a deep sense of happiness gather in his chest. This is _wonderful_. Sherlock follows the lights in the soldier’s eyes, thinking he could spend all night deducing him. 

But the soldier clears his throat pointedly.

Oh, yes. _Sex._ Sherlock had forgotten in the joy of observing him. 

Is he wearing dog tags? Sherlock reaches out and touches the soldier’s chest to pull them out so he can feel them brush against his back during sex. But no such luck. Still, the man’s chest is warm, the fabric of his shirt is intriguing, and Sherlock traces his hand over the curve of the soldier’s soft stomach. He sucks it in with a self-deprecating look. 

Sherlock cups his erection. Like last time, he is already quite aroused. It must be the thought that does it for him, Sherlock thinks. _Danger kink._

Or simply the desire for action - Sherlock can empathise. 

The soldier readily opens the buttons of his trousers and pulls his cock out. It’s nice and thick. Long, too, considering his short stature. But it’s mainly the broad base of it that makes Sherlock’s mouth water. Sherlock holds the soldier’s erection, and again the ecstasy is already pulling on his senses, because the sensation of touching warm skin is _enthralling_. He runs his fingertips over it slowly, enjoying the smooth texture. Sherlock spends several moments just looking at his own hand there. 

The soldier moves forwards, though. He pushes his hips towards Sherlock, and Sherlock knows what he means. No lingering. He feels a touch of sadness at it. 

But the soldier is looking at him with an eager smile. He seems to enjoy the idea of a hand job. Sherlock wraps his hand tighter around him and gives him a pull, which causes him to inhale sharply, and then smile at him again, as if they’re sharing a secret. 

Perhaps they are. 

Normally, Sherlock would have leaned over the sofa already. Or he would have been pushed there by now. But this man looks at him, and Sherlock wants to observe him. Touching this soldier is akin to conducting to a symphony. When Sherlock’s thumb brushes over his glans, he opens his mouth and inhales sharply. When Sherlock rewards him with a long, slow stroke, he licks his lips until they are shiny and pink. When Sherlock’s other hand cups his balls, he stares at him, momentarily dumbstruck with pleasure, then tilts his hips for more. 

Sherlock listens for every gasp, every hum, and every soft sigh. He tries to catalogue them. A cautious pull of his balls makes him groan something harsh that means ‘careful,’ and ‘yes, but no more.’ A quick back-and-forth over the top of his cock makes him laugh a shivery breath that says ‘oh, this is great, but don’t overdo it.’ A brush lower, under his balls and towards his anus, makes him close his legs and bite his lip while staring at him - ‘No.’ When Sherlock removes his hand, he leans back with a relieved expression. And then when Sherlock provides him with a series of long pulls, he breathes out slowly in a controlled, ‘I’m doing my best not to come, here.’ 

Sherlock slows it down and simply cradles his erection, then strokes him with careful tugs. 

The soldier gasps, and then smiles at him in turn. His smile is a pure, beautiful thing. Sherlock _adores_ it. It is stunning. 

But there are heavy footsteps in the hallway. Sherlock notices them through the haze of this man with the desperately wonderful collection of tells. Whoever is outside is nearing the door and about to open it, so Sherlock puts his hands on the soldier’s shoulders and pushes him backwards towards the door. The soldier takes the steps easily - definitely psychosomatic, if he can move like that – his shoulder blades make contact with the wood, his momentum pushes the door shut, and it locks with an audible click.

 _Problem solved._ Sherlock grins. 

The footsteps outside hesitate. Sherlock believes he might pound on the door or shout at them. 

But after a long moment, he turns around and leaves. 

Easy amusement dances in the soldier’s eyes. He seems pleased, as if their coordinated effort was meaningful to him. Sherlock feels the drugs pound happiness though him, because he keeps on smiling. It’s like a game, this. Like they’re children, playing. 

Sherlock leans over the soldier, and then wraps his hand around the soldier’s cock again. It rises to his touch. The soldier licks his lips. Sherlock moves his hand, fast, and his gaze turns to pure lust. He leans his head against the door, looks up at him, and simply breathes, showing him the arousal in his face so clearly. 

Sherlock rubs his thumb over the soldier’s glans and traces the precome pearling up there already. Sherlock gives him a few pulls, and then stops. He briefly traces his finger over the head and pulls again, then stops again. He is taking him to the edge now and they both know it. Sherlock’s other hand cups the soldier’s balls, and he starts to tremble. He is moving along with Sherlock’s hand, pushing himself closer and pulling himself away, so close to orgasm. 

It feels as though Sherlock is absorbing every nuance of this man, every minute detail, every tremor and shiver. 

And then, Sherlock tightens his hand. The soldier bites his lip and stifles a moan while Sherlock brushes his glans, rubs his shaft, and pulls his balls, all into a grand crescendo. The soldier takes a shaky breath and ejaculates, hot over Sherlock’s hands. It feels like a release for Sherlock, too. He feels as if he is drifting along on the waves of the soldier’s orgasm. 

Sherlock cradles the soldier’s cock and moves his hand very slightly, but he must be too sensitive to be touched any further, because he stops Sherlock’s hand. The soldier holds his own hand there, wrapped over Sherlock’s. Sherlock can see some regret in him, now. Some gratitude, as well. 

Embarrassingly, the feeling of his own hand being held moves Sherlock as well. He wants to keep this man, and this feeling, he wants to curl into the soldier’s body and never leave it. It is the drugs providing that image, but Sherlock still feels it. He doesn’t want to be left and to be alone again. So bored, so lonely. _Please stay with me, all night._

And then there is a loud thumping on the door. 

Neither of them had heard anyone approach this time. 

The soldier moves away from the door with a last regretful glance. He pulls his trousers up and fastens them quickly. He nods at Sherlock in silent acknowledgement of his gratitude, and then opens the door. 

He is gone before Sherlock can feel the wave of loss at seeing him go. 

But then there is the next nervous-looking man – investment banker – stressed – took the tube here – closeted bisexual - dates women - and Sherlock focuses on him. Sherlock takes off his trousers and pants, and then leans over the sofa. 

The next is a clerk in the Royal Courts of Justice. Then, there is a retired architect with a leather fetish. After that, there are three men who come in together, and Sherlock’s mind and body crackles and aches and overflows. 

Eventually, he always stops observing.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (John)

 

 

A hand job is hardly a life changing event. Nor was the fuck the week before - it wasn’t special at all. John imagines people are fucking behind closed doors like that all over London. Endless cluttered flats with kaleidoscope-eyed pale men, looking at him with sharply intelligent gazes, as if they _know_ him. 

As if they have the faintest clue who John is. 

Granted, John hasn’t got a clue, either. He wakes up rock-hard before five in the morning, and he’s already gripping his cock and squeezing it before he’s fully awake, humping his bed like a teenager. 

_Sherlock Holmes._

John showers, after. He walks to the shop. He buys some eggs and scrambles them, then doesn’t eat most of them. 

He writes a draft for his blog, aware that he will never post it. “He tossed me off, yesterday. We didn’t speak a word.” _And I want to do it again._ Of course he does, it’s not surprising at all. John wants some, and he knows how to get it, now. It’s like taking a number at the butcher’s counter. 

He keeps on thinking about those eyes. 

God, it was good. Even just that hand job, it was one of the best John’s ever had. He is going to go back. He always knew that, but John’s surprised by how clear it rings in his head. He’ll do it again. 

In therapy that week, John leans back into his seat and tests her with, “I’ve been having sex.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “You have? That’s-”

“Progress?” John suggests.

She tilts her head and asks, “Do you believe it to be?” 

No. No, John’s not that naïve. It might even be a regression of some sort. A fall into something deeper. Something that’ll get its claws into him and drag him down, something that’ll corrupt him from the inside. Or maybe he already is corrupted. Maybe all of that ugliness inside of him isn’t anything new, all that _want_ condensed into quick pulls over his cock while he thinks about gripping short hair and pumping into a mouth, or an arse. John isn’t reinventing the wheel here. He’s always been like this. This was just a step further, a fuck further, some anonymous place his cock hadn’t been before. 

John says, “It’s a man,” because he’s trying to shock her. He’d like to get some perverse resolution from seeing that flicker of disgust in her eyes, because he knows that he’d deserve it. “First time outside of the army, actually.” 

She parries, “You are exploring your sexuality?” 

_Exploring._ Going to the Arctic and hoping not to die from the cold – yeah, John could see that. “I found him online. We don’t speak. First time, I just fucked him and left.” John’s saying more than he ever has to her. The words are rolling over his tongue like sweets. “Two more men were waiting to fuck him, once I was done.” 

She does pause briefly here. “Was it consensual?” 

“ _‘course._ " Not like he raped the man. “Of course it was.” 

“You are planning to do it again.” It’s not a question.

John looks her straight in the eyes. “I am.” 

She nods. “Well, I believe that _is_ progress, John.” 

John almost laughs. If that’s all it took… But he wouldn’t have done this before. He never did this before. Not in the real world, not with civilians. And not when there were women to date. 

John goes home and opens the website again. He watches the ads drift by. The wait’s like an itch. He wants to see him again. But he’s not sure if the ad will ever come back, of course. Or when. 

He looks at the other ads and considers them, too. “Lonely queer in Camden.” “Needs me a daddy.” “Master seeks slave.” John could go fuck someone else in the meantime and see what that’s like. But what does he think he’ll find? ‘Invalided army doctor seeks…’ What? 

He doesn’t have to wait long, because after 1am the next night, the ad’s up again. 

John was asleep. Or he was lying on his bed while considering the idea of sleep when he checked the website just one more time. 

He’s dressed and ready to go in a moment. 

The door to 55 Montague Street is open again. John takes the stairs. He opens the door to the second flat, and Sherlock’s lying face-first on the sofa, fully naked, with some bloke already giving it to him from behind. 

He recognises John at least - John can see that in his eyes. Sherlock’s got a high flush all the way over his cheeks where his face is pushed into the sofa cushions. He even _smiles_. 

John stays by the door and waits his turn. He looks around the flat, at haphazardly piled magazines and books and a collection of butterflies in a frame. There’s a human skull, sitting on a pile of encyclopaedias. There is a used condom already lying on the living room table, too. John’s number three, tonight. Or four, or five, depending on what happened earlier. 

There’s the sound of the sofa again. Squeak, squeak, squeak. The man’s arse is contracting rhythmically while he thrusts into Sherlock. The silence makes it all so earnest-sounding. It’s not even remotely funny, but John can feel a huff of laughter in his chest anyway. God, he loves this. He’s not sure why, but it makes something inside of him sit up and pay attention again. Something he thought he’d lost. 

It only takes another minute, then the man finishes with an embarrassingly high groan. He pulls out. 

John looks at Sherlock lying there. His arse is shiny with lube. That should probably bother him, shouldn’t it? Sherlock’s not waiting for John, instead he’s cheerfully letting someone else - _anyone_ else - fuck him. It doesn’t matter one bit who John is, just that he’s hard and willing to give it to him. But that’s the deal here, and John gets that. 

It’s kind of hot, even. 

The other bloke leaves, and Sherlock stands up. His cock’s hard. John wants to suck it. He wants to spend a good half an hour licking and kissing it, until he’s begging for more. Sherlock comes closer, reeking like sex and sweat. His pupils are all black - he looks like he’s flying high right now. Sherlock smiles at him, eager, excited, and it’s so easy to smile back. _God, it’s nice to see you._

Sherlock stares at him again as if he can see every minute detail of John’s mind. John thought that he’d gotten used to it, but it’s still an intense experience. Sherlock really _looks_. He takes him in and John feels… seen. No one else in this cesspool of a city ever looks him in the eye. But this man does. 

After a moment more of contemplating him - or observing him, or reading his mind, John doesn’t know - Sherlock gives John’s trousers a meaningful little pull. John drops his cane to the floor without looking and eagerly opens his zipper. His cock pushes out, already hard from watching Sherlock earlier. From smelling it, too. And from being here, knowing that he’s getting a go next. 

Sherlock grabs John’s arm, leads him to the sofa, and sits him down. John sinks down into the cushions. _All right, then._ Sherlock grabs a condom next, then bossily kneels over him with a leg on each side of John’s lap. He slides the condom over John’s cock. John grins. _Know what you’re after tonight, huh?_

John leans back, reaches out and touches Sherlock’s sides. He’s radiating heat. His skin is wet with sweat. John settles his hands by Sherlock’s hips, then steers him down. Sherlock uses his hand to lead John’s cock inside of him, and he goes in so _easy_. 

John shudders, already sure he’ll wank over the feeling of his cock just _sinking_ in there. 

Without even taking a moment to adjust, Sherlock starts riding him. He’s clearly gagging for it, so John grabs Sherlock’s cock and starts pulling him off. He looks so delicious, flushed and hot. Sherlock towers over him, too. John is facing his chest and the long pale column of his neck. Sherlock rolls his hips, and then moves himself up and down – John barely has to do a thing. 

John leans in and playfully licks a nipple. That causes Sherlock to grab John’s head and pull it close to his chest. Oh, he likes that, does he? John grins and worries the nipple between his lips. He moves his hips up, and fucks him while he licks, sucks, and pinches Sherlock’s nipples in turn.

It works. Sherlock’s moving over him as if he never wants to _stop_. John wonders what he’s on, because whatever it is, it looks incredible. Sherlock is practically vibrating in his arms. John adds a swipe of his thumb to the head of Sherlock’s cock, then an extra pull. He bites a nipple, and Sherlock tenses up. John can feel him start to flutter, thigh muscles quivering, back hollowing out. Sherlock throws his head back and urgently rocks himself over John’s cock with decadent-sounding squelching sounds. John can _feel_ him teeter on the edge, and then he’s coming, spraying bursts of thick come over John’s wrist. 

And god, the smell of it, and the sight of come all over him... John pushes up into Sherlock’s delightful heat, fucks his arse hard, and comes inside of him with an amazing shudder. 

Sherlock leans over him for a few moments more, breathing hard. Then he moves off him, and John’s cock pops out of him. 

John pulls the condom off and chucks it with the rest, and Sherlock flops back onto the sofa. He lets himself fall down in a boneless sprawl, with his legs wide open. The lube creates a wet sheen where it’s spread all between his upper legs. He seems completely unconcerned with the come on his stomach and in his pubes, too. His flush has spread all the way to his chest, and he looks entirely blissed out, fucked out, and as high as you can possibly get. 

John’s whole body is still thrumming with the strength of that orgasm, too. He looks at Sherlock and thinks, _you look like I did you right_. He smiles. 

Sherlock smiles at him in return, a slow and long thing that John wants to look at for forever. John thinks about staying here a bit, maybe, lying on this sofa and staring at him. Rubbing his leg a bit. 

But then there’s a sound at the door. 

It’s a young bloke, maybe twenty at most. He looks between them questioningly, and then very earnestly does not speak. Sherlock will probably throw him out, John thinks, considering he just came. 

But no, Sherlock lies back, points towards the condoms, and then deliberately _opens his mouth_. John sees it and feels another wave of heat. _Christ._

John gets up off the sofa to make space. He pulls his trousers up and looks at Sherlock, already waiting to be buried under the next. The kid is getting ready to feed him his cock, so John leaves. 

John wanders home in the middle of the night, opens the fridge and eats two apples, then a tin of beans on toast, then some cheese. He thinks about buying beer, tomorrow. He hasn’t had a beer in ages. 

He lies down on his bed, opens his legs, and has a long, leisurely wank while thinking about taking Sherlock’s mouth, too. Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock’s neck, and the flush on his chest. Sherlock’s _eyes_. 

If this were anyone else... John would think he’s in love.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. (Sherlock)

 

 

The first time Sherlock posted the ad, it was an entirely logical solution to a problem. 

He was unable to leave the flat because he couldn’t peel himself away from the embrace of the walls, but he also couldn’t escape the constant pull of thoughts, words, and ideas. His brain was whirring out of his skull, and he couldn’t stand to listen to a single word from anyone. So he needed them to come to him. Silently. 

It didn’t matter who came. Anyone that entered through that door would bring a cloud of details and observable traits. Information was exactly what Sherlock’s mind needed - an entirely novel human being to focus on without the dull distraction of conversation. 

The first was a train manager with a gambling problem - still lived with his mother - grimy hands - a smoking habit of two, no, three packets a day – owned a golden retriever. 

Sherlock looked him over and soaked him in like a sponge. Every detail filtered into his brain. Sherlock wasn’t aroused but he allowed the man to fuck him, and that was helpful as well. The pain of being breached pulled him down into his body, the sensation of being filled pushed him up, and when it was done, Sherlock knew that he had found the antidote to his problem. 

It was as close to fulfilling his sex-drive as his sociopathic self could ever venture. 

Sherlock had always gone to clubs and hoped to be touched. It worked better after taking ecstasy, he found. Or meth, or a combination of GHB and mephedrone. Then, he had sex with men in alleys, bathrooms, sometimes on the dance floor itself. Sherlock didn’t care about observing them - they were nothing but sounds, lights and music, sweaty hands and sour breaths. They always provided him with what he needed, if only he was high enough. 

Sherlock learned to rely on drugs. With them, the sensations were overwhelmingly pleasurable both when they were gentle, and when they were cruel. 

He wouldn’t have sex for months, and then it would all become too much, and he went back. He always circled back when he was crawling with feeling and aching for the distraction of another human being.

And then, he posted the ad, and going out for sex wasn’t a necessity anymore. After the train manager, it was a Starbucks employee and his partner the music teacher. They took turns, and Sherlock felt their hands, saw their faces, and could deduce everything about them and their four-month relationship. 

It was so much easier. Not observing aloud meant not being hit in the face, or spat on, or being called a freak. Advertising on a gay sex website meant that there was no confusion about what was going to happen. And _anyone_ meant a much larger assortment of men than Sherlock ever found in a club. 

He was fucked by a team of Polish builders, the feeling of their callused hands rough on his skin. One kissed him with a lot of tongue, and Sherlock carefully recorded the act of affection in his mind palace. He had a Kenyan diplomat, a father of three who had just dropped off his oldest at Queens College. A trans man, once, who looked him in the eye while revealing what he must have thought was a shock – Sherlock knew as soon as he walked in. Sherlock let him fuck him for a long time. 

Some tried to talk to him. They whispered how much they liked it, how they wanted to see him again. Shouts of ecstasy. Or the worst - tedious comments afterwards like, ‘Thank you,’ or ‘Do take care.’ Sherlock either ignores or throws them out when they insist on speaking, because he never wants to _talk_ to a single one of them. What is the point when he can deduce everything he needs to know? 

Until the soldier. 

He is no different than the others. Sherlock doesn’t need to tell him anything, or steer him in any way that he doesn’t understand non-verbally. There is no rational need to have a conversation with him. But Sherlock looks at him and thinks, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and it bothers him that he can’t deduce it with absolute certainty.

Sherlock can tell that the limp is psychosomatic, obviously. He likely has a therapist telling him that at least once – no, twice a week. But Sherlock wants to know _more_. Sherlock wants to know the soldier’s name. His birth date. He wants to know what his favourite Chinese place is, and how he likes his toast. And despite Sherlock’s superb reasoning skills, London is too densely-populated to make a definite guess about his living situation. Sherlock could get it down to a few streets, but that still means thousands upon thousands of flats and house-shares. 

There is only one certain way to see him again. Sherlock posts the ad again just two days later. 

He’s still sore from last time, so he scores some meth first. He needs a good rush to get started. 

Sherlock posts the ad even though it is only early afternoon, secure in the knowledge that the soldier’s currently unemployed and likely to be at home, and then injects 20 milligrams of methamphetamine into his median cubital vein. The rush is nearly instant. A hot wave runs from his arm through his chest, up to his head, and then down to his toes. His heart races, and his cock stirs. He immediately craves sex. He _needs_ it. 

Sherlock often has difficulty maintaining an erection or reaching orgasm, but he did both with the soldier. He remembers that orgasm and the intensity of it, and he wants to do it again on meth. He wants to be taken again, so badly.

He undresses and prepares himself. Sherlock’s humping his fingers, already desperate for it, by the time someone comes in. It’s not the soldier, but a Tesco cashier with wide eyes and a thick circumcised cock. Sherlock leans his head down, his arse up, and he aches and shivers into bliss. 

Next is a divorce lawyer. He is rough and it hurts, even through the haze of the high. While he is still fucking Sherlock, a professor from the Royal College of Art comes in. He just wants a mouth anyway, so Sherlock provides it. The thrusts almost choke him, but he knows how to angle his head, how to keep the back of his tongue pressed down, and how to breathe around a cock. It’s not difficult. Sherlock can taste the latex of the condom along with the chemical taste of meth, and it’s as familiar to him as breathing. 

There are a group of men entering his flat next, too many to keep track of. They take turns and also try to get him off. Sherlock comes while thrusting into someone’s arse, but he barely remembers it moments later. Sherlock kneels and gives a blowjob to a smoker after that, someone in finance with a big cock that bumps the back of his throat at every pass. Sherlock drifts a bit, which is why when the man moves back, pulls the condom off, and ejaculates over his face, Sherlock is too slow to dodge it. 

That one leaves, too. 

Two more stick around to fuck him, but it is repetitive and not nearly as good as the high of the meth thrilling him, so Sherlock mostly thinks of other things while it grows dark outside. 

And then Sherlock’s alone again, on the sofa between filled condoms, with come on his face and in his hair, and a sore arse. His legs feel like rubber. He’s already coming down. He should have injected more. Or he should have taken something else. It was too short of a rush, and the soldier didn’t even appear. Sherlock looks at the door. It’s been hours. 

_He’s not coming._ It hurts more than he would have expected. 

The meth feels like it is fading, but he still has some heroin. Sherlock was saving it for something special, but he needs it now. He waits another few minutes, then mixes 30 milligrams with lemon juice and shoots up.

Sherlock lies back on the sofa, with the tourniquet on and the needle in his vein, and he can see the walls melt into bright, thrumming outlines. He can hear the city rushing past. His brain evaporates out beyond walls, and the universe shines and flutters while he drifts and spreads like a cloud.

Sometime later, the door opens and someone comes in. Sherlock knows it’s the soldier before he can focus his eyes enough to look. He smiles. _You came for me._

And then he drifts off again into the warm pulsing of the high, feeling no worries at all.

Sherlock comes to hours later, lying there in the complete dark. He would think that he hallucinated the presence of the soldier, except that he is covered with a blanket. But the soldier didn’t stay. Sherlock is still alone. So it’s easier, to text his dealer for more. To shut out the world and be nothing for a blissful series of days. 

When he comes down completely after about a week, it is predictably brutal. Sherlock vomits, shivers, sweats, and his heart feels as if it will rip out of his chest. He sits on the windowsill, wrapped in the blanket, feeling too hot one moment and impossibly cold the next.

Sherlock looks at the street for hours. He sees birds, hopping over the pavement. He sees endless pedestrians, a lone bike courier, numerous black cabs. He watches children play a game of tag on the pavement. Sherlock watches harried commuters, overworked parents, stressed investment brokers, and sullen teens. He observes humanity right there from behind the glass, completely aware of his own inability to ever participate. He’ll never be one of them. Not in the way he would want to. 

Mycroft stops by twice, tipped off in some way by his behavioural pattern. Sherlock doesn’t let him in either time. 

Eventually, Sherlock sees what he was looking for. The soldier appears on the pavement and looks at Sherlock’s building. He briefly hesitates there, before he moves on while leaning heavily on his cane. 

Sherlock could open the window and shout. He could get up and follow him. But he doesn’t. He sits there, looking at the soldier, observing every detail, and tying it into his mind while the soldier walks away. 

It isn’t until Lestrade calls with a case that Sherlock leaves the flat. If he can solve that, then maybe he is worth it. 

Then, maybe, it’ll be enough.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. (John)

 

 

John sits on a bench by Bloomsbury Square staring at the pigeons - the eating, flying, and shitting vermin of the city – before he works up the courage to walk past Montague Street one more time. 

He has never felt so fucking dirty. 

John knew that Sherlock was high every time he’s been with him. He noticed the track marks on day one. It’s just that he chose not to think on it too much. 

He had been out on a walk, and when he came home, John saw that the ad had already been up for almost three hours. He still went, already half-hard at the thought of what he’d find. He was imagining Sherlock blissed out and well-fucked, with half-lidded eyes. John had been fantasising about leaving Sherlock a note with his number, or even asking him out on a _date_. He had been planning to do it silently. Maybe in Morse code, to see if he’d get it. Or maybe just type it on his phone and show it to him. Say, ‘we don’t have to talk, but dinner?’ 

John was so sure that would make him smile. 

Or if not that, John wanted to get Sherlock off and see the bliss on his face again. John wanted to finally taste that pretty cock. Sherlock clearly has a serious sex drive, so John thought about that, too - he could try to stay hard longer for him. Fuck him long and good. God, he even would have bought some sex toys for him, to keep him entertained while John tried to gather up the energy for round two. That’s all John was thinking. He was painting himself a picture of something great, some dream of something new, something just for him.

And then he walked up those stairs, opened that door, and saw Sherlock on the sofa with a needle in his arm. John took in the tourniquet, the spoon, the array of used condoms and another empty syringe on the table, and he knew that he’d been kidding himself. John saw Sherlock slowly look up at him with the pin-prick pupils of heroin use. There was dried come all over his face. 

And Sherlock _smiled_ at him. 

John walked up to him and carefully removed the needle and the tourniquet. John checked that he was breathing all right, and then put a blanket over him. Then, John left. He closed both doors behind him on his way out, bought a bottle of whiskey, and methodically drank the whole thing. John missed therapy the next day, and when she called, he didn’t answer. 

When he does go back to therapy, John actually tells her what happened. “I found him shooting up. Heroin.” 

John wonders if Sherlock ever even cared who he was. John was just one in a long line of fucks while Sherlock was blasted out of his skull, and it didn’t mean a goddamn thing - _of course it bloody didn’t._

God, anyone could have come in and done anything to him. 

That’s why John goes back to Montague Street. That’s why he sits on that damn bench by Bloomsbury Square every single day for weeks, because John wants to see him. Just once from afar would be enough to know that he survived. That John didn’t leave him to overdose surrounded by condoms and splattered in come. 

Jesus. John can feel the guilt gnaw at him for that. He should have stayed. He could have called an ambulance, or got him into rehab. Any decent human being would have. Any _doctor_. 

John goes to stare at the Thames again, in the streaming rain, and fantasises about chucking himself in. Or eating his gun - the good old-fashioned cure for a soldier with PTSD. Suicide has always been an option in the back of his mind, but John considers it in earnest now. Maybe it’s time. He’s got about a hundred pounds to his name, and no friends but his gun and an internet connection. He might be homeless, soon. It’s nearing Christmas, and John can’t see himself get beyond that. It stands out in his mind like a vague marker of time. He won’t make it past, because there _is_ nothing past it. 

It takes over three weeks of John circling around Montague Street and obsessively checking the website until, just past the fence of the British Museum, John finally sees him again. _Sherlock Holmes._

He’s dressed in a long winter coat and scarf, but John would recognise him anywhere. 

Those eyes. 

As he walks up, John wheezes, “How-” 

“Don’t.” 

The deep baritone is a surprise. John swallows heavily. _Jesus Christ, he’s alive._

Sherlock seems all right. Of course, they only fucked a couple of times, so that doesn’t mean a thing, but John can feel his chest pulse with the realisation of that fact. _He’s fine._

He looks well, even. He’s pale, but Sherlock’s dressed in a suit under that coat. He shaved. John knows that he’s staring, but Sherlock is staring right back. Sherlock’s eyes are taking him in, flickering over him like he’s seeing everything John has thought and felt in these last few weeks. 

Sherlock doesn’t speak. Instead, he tilts his head in the direction of his flat.

And John nods. _Yeah. Yeah, okay._

Sherlock turns around with a whoosh of coat and starts walking quickly. John follows at his heels. It’s rush hour, and people hurry all around them. John usually hates it when he has to manoeuvre through the stream of commuters with his cane, but right now he doesn’t give a shit. 

They nearly run to Montague Street. 

Sherlock doesn’t give any indication that he’s concerned with John’s limp, and that suits John just fine. No, more than that, John _loves_ it. He ignores the bursts of pain with every step. Sherlock opens the door with his key, then thumps up the stairs, and John follows right behind him. 

By the time John makes it to the second floor, Sherlock has already opened the door to his flat. John sees a flash of ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes and piles of used lab equipment while Sherlock rips his scarf off and throws it, along with his coat, onto files spread over the living room table. Then Sherlock looks at him, that sharp gaze drilling holes into him, and John stares right back. He’s out of breath from scaling those stairs. His leg throbs with pain. He’s shaking, caught up in the goddamn rush of this – whatever this is. His cock throbs urgently. 

John drops his cane to the floor. He takes his jacket off, lays it down on top of Sherlock’s, then opens his zip and pushes his pants down. _Come here._

Sherlock is instantly on him. Sherlock’s hand wraps around John’s cock, Sherlock touches his balls, eagerly runs his fingers over the shaft, and traces the head softly. John’s sweating, and the room seems to waver. He missed this. He wants it. John looks at Sherlock’s pale, intense face, and he wants to tell him, to let him know...

In reply, Sherlock _kneels_ , and John breathes in harshly though his nose. Sherlock licks John’s cock and it’s instant heat and wetness, so bloody good. John can barely stay standing. 

There’s a whine in his ears. His heart thumps. Sherlock hits every spot just right - he curls his tongue over John’s glans, then sucks his cock with the perfect amount of pressure. John can feel Sherlock’s throat work, him tilt his head, and then Sherlock’s deep throating John’s cock like an absolute pro. Dear _god_. John tenses all of his muscles and tries to hold on. He hasn’t come in weeks, and he can’t... He’s so close already. 

Sherlock pops his lips off John’s cock and leans back to look at him. 

If Sherlock won’t swallow, John can’t blame him, but he _aches_ for the suck of that mouth. He’ll come into Sherlock’s hand as well, though. There’s no stopping it now, he’s on the edge of coming. John swallows. 

Sherlock looks up him, then angles his head and pulls John off so he’ll come _over his face_. It’s right out of a damn porno, and John can’t stop this. He can’t. He comes, white blobs of come gush over Sherlock’s cheeks and nose and eyes and forehead. Some come drips over his lips. It’s decadent as fuck, like a punch to the gut, like the best damn thing that has ever happened to him. Sherlock traces his fingers over John’s cock and milks out the last drops, then licks them off. _God_ , this man. 

It’s the prettiest picture John has ever seen. 

But Sherlock stands up, glances at him, then walks off. He disappears through a door behind the small kitchen. 

John stuffs his cock back into his pants, and then – fuck it, his legs are weak and he just came - sinks down onto the sofa. 

He’s going to gather his energy, wait until Sherlock comes back, and then he’s going to suck him. Not out of some sense of duty or reparation. No, John wants to suck him badly. He’ll do it slow. He wants to see Sherlock’s eyes close, his head tilt back, and his throat work while he heavily swallows back absolute pleasure. John wants to taste the musk of him. He wants to know what Sherlock’s cock feels like, lying heavy on his tongue. John wants to lick Sherlock’s come off his cockhead and suck him slowly. John’s here for _all of it_. 

When Sherlock reappears, his face is washed, and his hair a bit wet. John reaches out and gestures for him to come closer, then takes a page out of Sherlock’s book and cups Sherlock’s crotch. John rubs his thumb there in a nice little back-and-forth over the warm bulge of Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock sucks in a quick breath. Yeah. John knows what that feels like. He tries to open Sherlock’s trousers. It’s a bit of clumsy fumbling, but Sherlock takes over. He opens his buttons and pulls it all down in one go. His cock is still soft, but it’s nice and pink between his pale legs. John puts a hand on Sherlock’s bare hip, then leans in to suck him.

But Sherlock pulls away sharply. 

Sherlock moves to the side, graceful even while he’s holding up his trousers as they’re spanning his knees. He rummages around in a cardboard box, then comes back holding a condom. 

Really? John’s never met a bloke who likes being sucked with one on. Plus, Sherlock just did him without one. 

Then again... John eyes him - he’s probably positive, isn’t he? A lot of anonymous gay sex plus intravenous drugs... John doesn’t know why that would surprise him. Really, John’s the one who should have insisted here. John accepts the condom and opens it. But Sherlock’s cock is not hard enough to put it on. Sherlock looks away with a flush brushing his cheeks. 

Dammit. John wants to suck him. Drugs or no, HIV or no, god - speaking or not speaking. Just one more thing left on that bucket list, yeah? 

John puts the condom to the side and pulls Sherlock to sit down next to him on the sofa. He places a hand on Sherlock’s upper leg. _Let’s just take it slow_. Sherlock leans back awkwardly, but he allows it. John touches Sherlock’s cock. He strokes it lightly, then traces his legs again. 

It’s probably because John already came, but he can feel himself relax now. John traces his fingers over Sherlock’s cock gently, then rewards him with a hard stroke. It seems a little hazy. Hypnotic. 

It takes a long while before he’s fully hard, but John’s got time. 

He could get him off like this, John thinks. Slowly, carefully, with nothing but strokes in the fading afternoon light. He could make this happen. But no, this might be the one chance he gets to suck him. John teases Sherlock’s cock with one last pull, then shifts away from him. 

Sherlock looks up, a bit lazy now, his cock charmingly bopping up towards his stomach. 

_Yeah?_ John takes the condom and looks at him. 

Sherlock nods. 

John rolls the condom over the tip of Sherlock’s cock, then down. Sherlock opens his legs a bit more, but the angle’s awkward. John can’t lean over Sherlock’s lap like this, or not for long. So he gets on the floor. John’s leg whines when he leans his weight on his knees, but he doesn’t _care _. Fuck the pain. John glances up at Sherlock, holds the base of his cock to keep it still, and then leans down and licks it. The texture of the condom is slippery smooth. John can’t taste much. It’s not the musk he’d want - instead it’s the smell of latex filling his nose. But he looks up to see Sherlock’s eyes on him, so yeah. _Down to it, Watson.___

The condom slides over his tongue, and John sucks Sherlock deeper into his mouth. John’s technique isn’t nearly as practised as Sherlock’s. He puts his lips around the head and swirls his tongue, then he pulls back again and moves in small back-and-forth motions. He licks the condom’s little tip - John can poke his tongue in it and flick it like that, which makes Sherlock twitch. John takes him all the way in again, then out, in again. The spit spreads from the corners of his mouth and lips to his chin and his nose. 

Tremors start to run through Sherlock’s upper legs and stomach. 

John glances up quickly to meet his eyes, and then sucks him in again. He does it the best he knows how. John sucks Sherlock’s cock in to the edge of his throat until he gags, then out for a fluttering lick, then in again. He keeps up a good rhythm. _Come on, come on, give it to me._ John uses his other hand to trace between Sherlock’s legs, to cup his balls, then to stroke his stomach. 

John’s getting a crick in his neck.

Then, finally, he can feel Sherlock moving in the up and down of near-so-near, and John sucks him hard instantly, then keeps it going until he can feel him pulse in his mouth and come into the condom. _Thank god._ John lets Sherlock’s cock slide out of his mouth. His tongue feels numb. He sits back on his knees. Fuck, he’s sore. But it was worth it, though. John grins at Sherlock. It was. 

Sherlock’s looking at him with an unreadable expression. John pulls himself up by the side of the sofa. He sits down and waits until the sharp pangs in his leg die down. His foot is pin-pricking from lack of blood flow. 

Sherlock pulls his trousers up and moves to the windowsill, to his cigarettes and ashtray. John can see his hands tremble when tries to light one. 

_He’s never not going to be a junkie, is he?_

John gets up. He uses the table for support and grabs his cane from the floor. Sherlock is smoking as if it’s going out of style, taking urgent pulls of his cigarette. 

John nods his goodbye. 

He makes it down the stairs, and then back to his fucking bedsit, but it’s in a haze. Once he’s there, John gets out of his shoes, opens the covers of his bed, and crawls underneath them, clothes and all. 

He falls asleep instantly.

 

 


	6. (Sherlock)

 

 

The soldier seemed… glad to see him. Sherlock had assumed that if he would still care to look at him, there would be anger and disgust, frustration, or demands to change and get clean. Or, possibly, merely a punishingly hard fuck. 

Instead, the soldier stopped in his tracks for him, smiled with obvious relief, and Sherlock knew that somehow he had managed not to disappoint him yet. Somehow, this man had seen him use, observed the lowly thing he truly is, and still desired to look him in the eye. So Sherlock took him to his flat, because he wanted to keep that illusion alive for just a short while longer. Sherlock touched him and tied every response into his mind. He carefully recorded every sigh, every grin, and every minute twitch of his body. Sherlock purposefully guided the soldier to ejaculate onto his face because he wanted to feel it, smell it, and luxuriate in it. 

And the soldier touched him in return - because he is that kind of man, Sherlock suspects. The kind who believes in fairness. But it was mid-day, and Sherlock was disappointingly sober. He was somewhat aroused, but not sufficiently. 

In spite of it, the soldier continued, and it felt so intimate that Sherlock wondered if this is what lovers do. He has never been touched that slowly. Eventually, Sherlock’s body became aroused without any chemical assistance, entirely unforced, just as a response to the warmth of him. And when the soldier knelt and fellated him, Sherlock watched him. Without the artificial haze of drugs, there was nothing there enlarging every touch, inviting Sherlock to forget about pain or limits, or making him want to float from one cock to the next. 

This was reality, in all its dull and aching detail. 

Sherlock observed the few grey hairs around the soldier’s temples. He saw a scar, hidden under his hair, and tried to deduce its age and cause. Sherlock’s brain was running too insistently to focus on the sensation of what was happening to him, but he could feel the slow build of his orgasm. Eventually, Sherlock managed to ejaculate for him. 

It was not nearly as spectacular as the orgasms he has had while using ecstasy. But this was real. Unenhanced. 

The soldier obviously felt pain afterwards, and Sherlock could appreciate the fact that he had made the offer and completed it. No matter whether it hurts or not, he had seen him think. _No matter._

And then he walked out, and Sherlock was left to analyse the aftermath of sober sex. To compare this man to all those who have touched him in the past as well, back when Sherlock still believed that he was capable of human connection. Sherlock reminds himself of what they said. What _they_ called him, once the immediate gratitude of sexual satisfaction disappeared. It is entirely irrational to believe that this would be any different. Sherlock is a freak. He is despised by anyone who gets to know him. 

But there is no question in his mind that he will post the ad again, so he can see the soldier once more. 

Sherlock only doubts about the _how_. He can try to remain sober, but the thought seems overly naïve. He wants to be able to observe the details, yes, he wants to feel the soldier’s hands and read tells in his clothes, his face, and in the sounds he suppresses. But Sherlock cannot deal with the sensations of sex very well when they are unenhanced, and he might not be able to continue. 

He waits a full twenty-four hours, then places a piece of cardboard in-between the door downstairs, opens the website, and posts the ad with something close to hope pulsing though him. _Come back._

While waiting, Sherlock prepares several 50mg mephedrone pills, then pours some expensive whisky – birthday present from Mycroft – and dissolves a gram of GHB into the amber liquid. He swallows his first pill and downs the whisky, just so he can stand the night.

He leaves the lube and condoms on the living room table, then very deliberately leans a small notebook along with a pen against the bottle of lube, so it is within the line of sight of anyone who walks in. 

Sherlock sits on the windowsill and smokes. 

He has thought about what to write. ‘I know you are an army doctor, tell me where you have been.’ Or, ‘Why do you need a psychosomatic limp?’ Or, ‘Come back tomorrow.’ Or, ‘My name is Sherlock.’ Sherlock realises that the soldier knows that, seeing how it’s on the buzzer downstairs and he would need to be an idiot not to have read it by now. But he imagines that that’s how conversations work - I’ll tell you mine, you tell me yours. 

The GHB and mephedrone hit him sooner than he thought. While the nerves cause his stomach to swirl, Sherlock notices the texture of the cigarette between his fingers and the seductive pattern of the smoke with something akin to stunned fascination. 

It has only been minutes, but it seems much longer. The drugs dance within him, and his heart thuds urgently in his chest. 

And then there is a sound in the hall. Quick, sure footsteps, with the thud of a cane accompanying them. Sherlock jumps up, marches to the door and throws it open. _He came._

The soldier is standing there, delightfully out of breath, with something in his eyes that says, ‘did you _have_ to post it right before dinner?’ 

Sherlock grins. 

The soldier smiles back. He comes in and, as expected, his eyes fall on the notebook immediately. Sherlock tilts his head towards it. _Please._

But he shakes his head. The soldier laughs, then takes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Sherlock. It reads: “John Watson. 07422106130” 

_Oh._ Sherlock looks back at him. _John Watson._ He seems like a John. Steady, dependable. Not average, though. Not even close. 

Sherlock is still considering the soldier’s name when he - _John_ \- takes Sherlock’s hand. John leans in, taps his hand, and Sherlock thinks that he might kiss him… when the door opens behind them. 

It’s the Tesco cashier – changed brand of shaving razors – new shoes – Oyster card in his shirt pocket. 

Sherlock hesitates. He did post the ad. He invited them here. He could lock the door if need be, but now that the drugs are singing inside of him, he craves sex. More than only the soldier will provide, as well. Sherlock wants all of them. Every single one. 

John solves the dilemma by leaning his cane against the table and sitting down. He settles back against the sofa cushions, then gives Sherlock a look. 

He is planning to stay? Sherlock’s somewhat taken aback, but he is not adverse to the idea of John observing. Not at all.

Sherlock makes certain to smile at John, then looks back at the cashier and steers him to stand next to the sofa, where John can see them. The cashier lowers his trousers, and Sherlock reaches out to stroke him. He has a nice cock, circumcised and plump. Sherlock quickly pumps him into hardness, while glancing at John. 

John is sitting turned towards them. He is watching steadily, and Sherlock feels a rush of warmth for him when their eyes meet. _Perfect._

The cashier is aroused now, so Sherlock rolls a condom over his cock, kneels, and opens his mouth. It’s easy enough - Sherlock has done it countless times. The drugs make him feel in control, as well. Tranquil and content. Sherlock takes the cashier’s cock deep into his mouth easily. He is doing it without any specific thought, but he finds it deeply pleasurable. The cashier thrusts along eagerly. 

John is still watching closely. Sherlock licks the head of the cashier’s cock with the tip of his tongue while glancing at John, daring him to do something. John seems to like that, judging by the sudden flash of lust in his eyes. The feeling inspires Sherlock to reach over, take John’s hand, and place it on the back of his neck. John shifts closer on the sofa so he can reach, and then hesitantly guides Sherlock’s head forwards. 

It feels stunning. Sherlock can feel the rasp of John’s fingers on the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. The condom-wrapped cock intrudes into his mouth. Sherlock leans back, but John keeps him there for a moment more. John forces him to take it deeply and, entirely unexpectedly, Sherlock can hear himself _moan_. 

There is an amused breath from John. 

Sherlock’s eyes drift closed while he allows John to steer him. He feels outside of himself. Sherlock is nothing but the drugs and the sheer pleasure of this moment. John’s hand is the only reality of his body, and the cock inside of his mouth is his reward.

He only realises the cashier has orgasmed when John’s hand falls away.

Sherlock leans back and slowly closes his mouth. The phantom feeling of it being filled is still there. He looks up. 

The Tesco cashier seems satisfied enough by Sherlock’s actions. John, however - _John_ is looking at him as if he is the best thing in the world. Sherlock can feel his cock pulse. He has an erection. 

The cashier straightens out his clothing and leaves, but Sherlock stays kneeled on the floor. He moves closer to John’s knees, and John hesitantly touches his hair. His fingers card though it, and Sherlock hums, floating on the feeling. This is the drugs, it has to be. He shivers and his mouth opens in numb pleasure. 

He can see the bulge of John’s erection, so Sherlock noses against it. John huffs a laugh. Sherlock wants to open John’s trousers and suck him now, feel him slide slow and deep into his throat. John seems to want the same thing, judging by the expression in his eyes – it’s as if he wants this to last forever. 

But before John can open his trousers and give Sherlock what he wants, there is someone new at the door. Sherlock turns around slowly. It’s a politician of some sort. Middle-aged – gym membership – excessive preening – bleached teeth – hair plugs – cocaine habit. 

John leans back on the sofa, so Sherlock tilts his head, and the politician comes in. 

Sherlock is much more aroused than he usually would be from providing a simple blow job. His cock aches within his trousers, so he stands up. He opens his trousers, shoves his pants down, then unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. _Better._ Sherlock glances at John and catches him adjusting his cock in his trousers as well, and yes – that’s it. Sherlock wants to feel full now. 

He kneels on the sofa, then collects the lube and hands it to John. Sherlock can feel John’s agreement more than see it. He smiles, too. 

Sherlock spreads his legs for John, and John drips lube onto his fingers, then touches him gently. John is teasing him by going slowly, but Sherlock moves back onto his fingers greedily until they roll inside of him and stretch him. _I need, John._ Sherlock can feel the drugs roll though him now in hot waves. 

He repositions himself to be fucked by the – who was it? A politician? It burns when the ghost of John’s fingers is replaced by the blunt head of a cock. Sherlock feels full, pulled apart, and then full again when the man thrusts. Sherlock bends over the sofa, leans his head onto his arms, and breathes into the cushions. 

It goes on for a while. Sherlock is being fucked in hard, punishing slaps, and he moves along with them. He feels like a rag doll - supple and entirely pliable. He still has an erection. 

The politician finishes with a series of grunts. He pulls out, and Sherlock turns around and looks back to see John looking at the man with an annoyed glint in his eyes. 

He didn’t enjoy it? Sherlock doesn’t have time to ponder John’s expression, because before the politician even has time to clean up, the door opens and there are two more men. Sherlock doesn’t recognise them for a moment, but when he does, he smiles. The Starbucks employee and the teacher. Sherlock looks at them both – lost three pounds – stressful job search – temporary contracts – their puppy is alone a lot – recent arguments but still in love - and he feels a thrill again. This is all so _good_ , tonight. 

John hands them both condoms, which makes Sherlock feel cared for in an unexpectedly tender way. Most men are unreliable in their condom use. Quite often, they remove the condom when Sherlock isn’t looking, and continue without. 

Sherlock turns towards the bookcase, quickly palms another 50mg mephedrone tablet, and swallows it dry. He needs this feeling to continue. 

The next moment, he is leaning over the sofa again, and the teacher stands behind him and breaches him. Then the teacher holds still while he, too, is being prepared to be fucked. Sherlock glances back at the Starbucks employee boyfriend, and then at John, who watches them with a mix of interest and wariness. 

They start moving. The push and pull is different now that there are three people in the equation. It’s most difficult for the teacher, since he is in the middle. It takes a couple of tries to find a workable rhythm, but when they do, it is more than worth it. Sherlock has done this often before, threesomes. Or more, of course. 

When Sherlock looks back at John, he can see that John is has acquired a condom. John seats himself on the sofa under Sherlock’s legs, and then – _oh_ \- he holds Sherlock’s erection and slides a condom over it. 

John looks up at him with a raised eyebrow, and Sherlock nods readily. Yes, John, _yes_. 

It’s hard to control his movements, because he is being pushed back and forth by the two men behind him. But John takes Sherlock’s cock between his lips and moves in counterpoint, so Sherlock has a warm, wet mouth to thrust into. It feels overwhelmingly good. The fucking - rocking, thrusting, sweating. Sherlock can feel his calf muscles burn, but it is nothing compared to the incredible thrum of drugs and sex. Every part of him feels alive. 

The one who is fucking him finishes, and the rhythm falters. He pulls out. But then Sherlock looks back, and there is the Starbucks employee, ready to replace him. It is good, so good. So is the sweet slide of John’s mouth. Sherlock leans forward in order to make the man’s cock hit his prostate. His thrusts are sloppy, but the mephedrone and GHB rush through him and Sherlock eagerly alternates between John’s mouth and the cock inside of him hit-hit-hitting where he wants it the most. He curls himself around John’s head, the man behind him holds Sherlock’s hips hard enough to hurt, thrusts just right, and Sherlock tumbles into an orgasm. 

He sinks to his knees, but John catches him and guides him onto the sofa. Sherlock is still coming, spurting into the condom. The man behind him continues to fuck him, hard. It doesn’t take long. 

When it is finished, Sherlock reaches down and pulls the condom off his cock. It’s unusual to see it filled with ejaculate, he rarely orgasms when he does this. But John was utterly wonderful – Sherlock smiles at him. 

The teacher has taken Sherlock’s notebook and is writing down both their phone numbers. Sherlock would tell him not to bother, but then why not? He is feeling too sated to mind. They grin at him and John, then leave. 

John hasn’t come yet, Sherlock realises. John needs this, too. But it’s more difficult than he thought to combine this. There’s another one already waiting, so Sherlock lies back and opens his mouth. He feels too lazy to stand up. 

After that one finishes, Sherlock rolls to his stomach, and he is being fucked again. 

More men come in, and everything blurs together. Sherlock is still being taken, or maybe it’s not still, maybe it’s a new arrival – he hasn’t been paying attention. Sherlock knows he’ll be sore tomorrow, but he loves this, just lying here, being used. He’s safe, too, because John... Oh, _John!_ Sherlock lifts his head and urgently looks around. 

John is still here. Good. 

There’s another cock pressed to his lips, and Sherlock opens his mouth and takes it. His mind flutters in and out of awareness now. Sherlock always likes this part, where so little of him is left that he is able to stop thinking. There is a stretch of blissful nothingness, where he doesn’t feel his body, or his mind. 

Until - “Isn’t this enough?” 

Sherlock slowly raises his head. John spoke. He sounds upset. A heavy-set plumber Sherlock has never seen before is discarding a used condom and preparing to leave. A young man, Sherlock squints – a student of... Math? Or Chemistry? Art, possibly - is waiting, already hard. But John seems angry, so Sherlock attempts to focus on John’s question. Is it enough? Sherlock doesn’t know. He always accepts them all until they stop coming. But yes, maybe? Sherlock nods at John, mostly to make him happy. 

John leaves. Sherlock feels a faint pang of _no John, no_ , even though he realises that John only went downstairs to close the door. 

The student is still waiting and staring at his arse. So Sherlock says, through numb lips, “Fuck me.” The student crawls over him, leans over Sherlock with all of his weight, and starts to thrust. Sherlock’s face is pushed into the side of the sofa, again and again, his wet cheeks sliding over the leather. Sherlock finds it hard to focus. He is nearing the blank resolution of the end of a night like this. But no - John. John still. 

John does return. Sherlock hears him, and he turns his face to look at John and smile at him. But John isn’t watching him, or touching himself. John stares at the floor. 

The student on top of Sherlock finishes quickly. When he pulls out, Sherlock can feel a deep burn. He closes his eyes. 

There is the loud bang of John closing the door behind the student’s back. Sherlock, on his stomach on the sofa, smiles. He can take John, now. As the last one. Just the two of them, that seems right. Maybe he’ll stay the night. Would he do that? 

A flutter of time later, John hands Sherlock a wet towel. He gives it to him, and Sherlock thinks _thank you_ and _wonderful_. Waking up with dried lube and ejaculate over him is never pleasant, so it’s very thoughtful of John. Sherlock cleans his hands, his face, and then his stomach, his cock, and between his legs. The towel comes away with a small streak of blood on it. John looks at it and swallows. 

Sherlock sees now that he isn’t hard at all. 

While he’d thought that John, he thought… Was he mistaken? Sherlock scrambles to sit up. There is a high, whining sound in his ears and his thigh muscles are shaking wildly, but Sherlock stands on unsteady legs and faces John. _Please, I can do this differently, we can, it’s not…_

John nods at him, face expressionless, and then lets himself out. 

Sherlock sinks down onto the sofa again. He feels cold to his core. He’s aware of the soreness in his body, as well of how _stupid_ this was. The mephedrone and the GHB are fading, and he has a stabbing headache. His mouth is dry. His anus throbs and burns. He is shivering, sweating, and increasingly nauseous. 

Even now, he knows he isn’t good enough.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. (John)

 

 

If John’s being honest, it stopped being hot about three blokes in for him. 

He’d _thought_ that he’d watch Sherlock get fucked all night long and enjoy it for the pretty picture it made. John even wanked to the idea. It seemed perfect. And Sherlock seemed up for it, too.

But in reality… When anyone means _anyone_ , it’s more seedy fuckers than film stars who walk in. John spent the evening watching their bushy pubes and beer bellies, their sweaty red faces, and their spit and come. All of them were taking Sherlock and his gorgeous self like they deserved him. 

It wasn’t up to John to say no, though. Or to say anything at all. It was Sherlock’s party. 

And really, Sherlock’s never been anything but completely straightforward. It’s just John who thought... What _did_ he think? For all John knows this was an average night for Sherlock. Ten, no, eleven men in a row? He might have done John, too, if he’d asked. 

Actually, John’s pretty sure that Sherlock would have gone for that, and the thought stings. After all, John has done exactly what those men did tonight. John wonders how _those_ nights ended, the ones where he was so very pleased with himself that he got to fuck Sherlock. He never saw the aftermath, did he? God knows how many of those times Sherlock was cleaning the blood off his legs by the time it was over. Or how many times he was high, too. John couldn’t see any new track marks, but that doesn’t mean much. Sherlock probably wasn’t on heroin, but he definitely was on something. He seemed out of it, especially near the end. 

John goes home, but he can’t fall asleep. He looks at his phone. Or he stares at it, more like. Maybe he should have stayed. Maybe he should have helped Sherlock into his tiny shower, and then put him to bed, wrapped him up in a blanket and just held him. John’s never been the cuddling type – his girlfriends always complained about that - but he would have, tonight. 

He wants to ask Sherlock _why_ , too. Why he does any of it, the drugs, the sex, over and over again. But then John probably knows the answer to that, doesn’t he? He thinks about the Thames, and his gun. Maybe they’ve got more in common than he’d like to think. 

John gave him his number, though. At least he has it now. 

But Sherlock doesn’t call. Not that day, nor the next. 

It’s nearing Christmas, and he might have people to occupy his time, or things to do. John can imagine Sherlock first sleeping it off, then clubbing the next night away and waking up on the pavement somewhere. John’s not sure if he’s jealous of that, or just annoyed at the thought that that’s probably _exactly_ what Sherlock is doing. Fucking some more men. Doing some more drugs. 

He doesn’t hear from him for three whole days. And then, at five in the morning, John’s phone buzzes and beeps. John jumps up and wildly struggles to unlock his phone. It’s a text. “Posted the ad. Come around? S.H.” 

He checks the website - it’s right there on top of the page, posted twenty-two minutes ago. “55/6 Montague Street. Come around. Anyone. One condition: don’t speak. S.H.” 

John closes his eyes and breathes. 

He could just not go, of course. But…

He shrugs into his jacket. Then he carefully replies to Sherlock’s text. “On my way.” 

But as he walks outside onto the dark and freezing street, John can’t help but wonder what it’ll be this time. How many men? And what will Sherlock be on tonight? John’s not being invited to some sort of delicious orgy. He’s invited to watch Sherlock get high and get fucked until he’s so out of it that he can hardly stand up anymore. So that’s what Sherlock wants, for John to come over and watch that? Because John’s not all that sure that he wants that. 

John walks onto Montague Street, to the door held open by a piece of cardboard. Some bloke passes John and races to get up the stairs. John moves aside and lets him go. Step, thud. Step, thud.

He’s just kidding himself. Why is he even here, if he’s not going to fuck Sherlock? To check up on him? 

When John arrives on the second floor, the door’s half open, and _there’s a queue_. John almost breathes out a bark of laughter. But it’s not funny, it’s not even remotely fucking funny. Sherlock is on the sofa, being fucked by one man, while another has his cock in Sherlock’s mouth. There’s a third just jerking off over Sherlock’s body, plus a waiting fourth who is clearly hopped up on something. And then there’s the bloke who passed John on the stairs, currently grabbing his own crotch. 

There are several used syringes on the living room table, in-between the lube and condoms. 

Sherlock’s eyes are unfocused and glossy. He’s not even here, really. He’ll barely notice whether John came by or not. 

And no. No, John’s not doing this anymore. 

He turns around and leaves. 

He makes it home, although he doesn’t remember it. John sits on his narrow bed, fully dressed. His hand trembles and he flexes his fingers, again and again. It was a nice little fantasy, that’s all. _Time to face reality, Watson_. John sits in his tomb of a bedsit, still wearing his jacket, and thinks ‘that’s over then’. And also ‘nearly made it until Christmas,’ with something like surprise. 

Hours later, he’s still not asleep, just sitting there and staring at the wall with burning eyes, when his phone beeps and buzzes again. John reacts slowly this time. It’s nearly noon already - there’s sun streaming through the window. John opens his phone. 

“You didn’t come. S.H.” 

John looks at it and laboriously types out a reply. “I did. You were busy.” _One more cock didn’t matter._

There’s a pause. John stares at the screen, not sure whether he wants a reply or not. 

“I am alone now. S.H.” 

John closes his eyes. No. _No_ , he’s not… He stands, with a shot of pain, and types, “Coming.” 

It’s a clear December day. There is a bright sun out now, along with a blue sky. There are some icy patches on the pavement. John’s leg grinds and screams at him while he walks, but it hardly matters. He’s not feeling a lot right now. There are masses of people outside today, all hurrying to do some last-minute shopping before the holidays, but John cuts through them at a fast pace. His feet carry him to Montague Street without trying at this point. 

The cardboard is still there. John pushes the heavy door open, and then kicks the bit of cardboard into the hall. He pulls the door shut until it locks behind him. 

Step, thud. Step, thud. Sherlock’s door is open. 

John walks in and closes that door behind him, too. Sherlock isn’t on the sofa. Or smoking on the windowsill - he isn’t in the living room at all. John walks around the sofa, and then opens the door of what he assumes is the bedroom. 

He’s right. Sherlock looks up from the bed. He’s entirely naked, lying on top of his sheets and outlined by the sun falling into the room. His hair is wet, and there are droplets of water standing out on his stomach. His cock is soft and lying along the side of his leg.

He looks like he belongs in some sketch in the Portrait Gallery. Like _art_. 

Sherlock’s eyes are bright. He sits up and slowly crawls across the bed towards John. He reaches for John’s zip. His intention is clear enough, but John’s not even remotely in the mood for it. He doesn’t stop him, though. Sherlock’s hands are quick with opening his trousers. John watches Sherlock lean in, give his entirely uninterested cock a soft little lick, and thinks _I am in love with him._

John should _laugh_ at the gentle way Sherlock’s leaning over from the bed, brushing his lips to John’s cock like he’s kissing him. And he should think something bitter about the way Sherlock is nosing into his pubes and then breathing out a tickling breath there. John shouldn’t want this. Any of it. 

The thing is, he fantasised about this exact scenario. John spent weeks wanking to the thought of pushing his cock between Sherlock’s cracked lips and fucking his throat with controlled, hard thrusts. John thought about grabbing Sherlock’s hair in a tight fist and looking him straight in the eyes, forcing him to take it. John thought about going slower then, feeling his cockhead rub over the edge of Sherlock’s throat, and finally coming right there, where it’d be hard to breathe, just to see the flush rise over his face. John had thought about pulling his cock out and wiping a thumb over Sherlock’s spit-slicked lips, then. Maybe wiping off some come, too. Or coming all over his face instead. John had imagined it _plenty_. 

But this isn’t anything like that.

He is here, after very little sleep, standing in an overly sunny bedroom, and it feels like a fucking _love letter_. Sherlock’s breaths are gentle whispers against his cock. John can feel the soft brush of Sherlock’s cheek. The fluttering drag of his lips. The wet warm lick of his tongue. 

Something harsh rises up in his throat, and John says, _“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock looks up at him. His eyes are a bright blue today. Their colour depends on the light, John has figured. He’s not sure whether Sherlock’s still high. But if this is the last time that he... John exhales slowly. He takes a step back, then removes his jacket. He’s doing this right.

That’s what he’ll do. Just one time. John pulls his jumper over his head. He takes off his shoes and socks, then his trousers and pants. He unbuttons his shirt, shrugs it off and pulls his undershirt over his head in a quick rush of some insane impulse. _This_ is how Sherlock should look at him. John faces him, naked. He’s all scars and soft stomach, unaroused cock and uselessness. Sherlock’s eyes flicker over him rapidly.

John doesn’t blush. He doesn’t twitch, or fall apart. 

Finally, Sherlock moves forward, then kisses John’s cock again. 

John feels the brush of Sherlock’s curls against his fingertips, and his breath sticks in his throat. 

He kneels on the bed. John pulls Sherlock towards him to lie down. John receives a bump of an elbow and a nose-full of curls, but then he has Sherlock lying down next to him. 

Sherlock seems unsure as to what they’re doing. John doesn’t know either. There are recent track marks in the crook of Sherlock’s arm. John’s eyes feel stuck to the blue-green bursts of skin now that he can see them up close. It’s terrifying. 

Without thinking about why, John traces Sherlock’s back. First up, past his shoulder blades, his neck, then down, to his lower back. John touches the side of Sherlock’s hip, then his stomach. Then up again, around his back. 

Sherlock is trembling very slightly, in quick little shocks. His breathing is shallow. 

Neither of them have an erection.

The bright winter sun falls on them both. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John looks at him, then at the track marks, and he thinks about telling Sherlock about the war. How he misses it so badly that he can hear gunfire in his dreams, and still see blood dripping and gushing behind his eyelids. 

Sherlock keeps on looking at him, too. Staring, as if he wants to take in every bit of him before it’s over.

John can feel his heartbeat throb in his throat. All the words he didn’t say, all the thoughts are pushing there. _Don’t do bloody drugs_. And, _You’re ruining your life, that’s what_. And, _You’re worth more, Sherlock_. And, _I’m not coming back from this, am I?_ John swallows them all down. This is what he has. 55/6 Montague Street. Anyone. One condition: don’t speak.

But John hasn’t got anything to lose. Literally – not a thing. So he catches Sherlock’s eye, looks down at his chest and the scar there, and taps onto Sherlock’s hand in Morse code, “G-O-T . S-H-O-T”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. He hesitates for a moment, then faces him and starts to tap out so quickly that John can barely follow, “A-F-G-H-A-N-I-S-T-A-N . O-R . I-R-A-“

John nods and taps back, “A-F” 

A slow smile settles over Sherlock’s face. It makes John feel alive, that smile. Even if it’s about bloody Afghanistan. 

Sherlock settles against him a bit more easily, and John leans into him as well. Sherlock’s eyes are so bright, today. There are small flecks of gold in them. There’s so much to say. But fuck it - for now, John _holds_ him.

And Sherlock holds him, too.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
